


Die Blumen

by RoterSand



Series: Ausländer: Die Oliver Geschichte [1]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoterSand/pseuds/RoterSand
Summary: Oliver notices that Richard is feeling miserable.
Series: Ausländer: Die Oliver Geschichte [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626487
Kudos: 21





	Die Blumen

**Author's Note:**

> **Ausländer: Die Oliver Geschichten** is a collection of short, independent Oliver Riedel stories. Setting: Rammstein is on a remote island for a new recording project.
> 
> This story is a gift for my friend **Tora**.

Richard had been in a shitty mood the entire day. At breakfast, he hardly ate anything. Before lunch, he didn’t even bother getting pampered as usual, instead he was walking circles around the camp with a look that told everyone to stay away, or else. After lunch, where he just moved food around on his plate, he grabbed his rifle and headed off.

Sneaking after him, as inconspicuously as a two metres tall man possibly could, Oliver was worried about his friend and band mate. Through the lens of his camera, he had noticed Richard’s discomfort. The band had only been on the island for a few days. Going there for their new record project had, as usual, come down to a vote. Majority won. Richard lost.

Oliver had already settled in. He had been tasked with documenting the band’s island adventure for possible future releases and took great pleasure in walking around with his camera. In between rehearsals and filming, he spent time on the beach surfing, or just enjoying the silence of his hut, sometimes going through his footage, sometimes reading, sometimes just lying there listening to the sounds of the island. The bassist had always enjoyed being in nature. He remembered the tree hut in Sonoma with fondness, and while the huts on the island were a little closer to each other than he would have preferred, he still liked them a lot more than any big house.

Richard, on the other hand, was used to a whole different lifestyle and level of comfort. Oliver had laughed when he saw the stock of cigarettes the lead guitarist had in his suitcase, despite them having arranged for supplies to be brought to them on a regular basis. And while Richard found it pleasant to get carried around everywhere and getting daily manicures from the local women so that his nail polish was always on point, he got bored quickly, and then he missed the conveniences found in a big city.

Keeping his distance, Oliver followed Richard to the field where Flake normally went looking for butterflies. There was something about the guitarist’s facial expression that made him uneasy, as if he was looking for trouble, and Oliver was set on not letting anyone get on each other’s nerves just yet, he was enjoying island life way too much for that.

Through his binoculars Oliver spotted Flake awkwardly chasing after a blue butterfly, trying to catch it with his net, failing spectacularly. The keyboardist was so focused on the hunt that he did not notice Richard moving in closer. Lifting his rifle, the guitarist aimed at the ground close to Flake’s feet, and with a wide grin on his face, he started shooting.

“Dance!” he laughed.

Through his camera, Oliver could see Flake’s face going from surprised, to terrified. The long, thin man started hopping, then he dropped his net and ran off as fast as he could while Richard kept shooting, attracting disgruntled glances from natives for scaring off their prey.

“Richard!”

Surprised, Richard stopped shooting and looked around only to see Oliver moving towards him, still holding the camera in his hand. For a split second he seemed a tiny bit ashamed, but glancing at Flake, still running, Richard couldn’t help giggling. Not until the keyboardist was well out of sight did he turn around to give his attention to the bassist.

“What’s up, Olli?” he said, a mischievous look still on his face.

“How are you doing, Reesh?” Oliver asked. There was concern in his big, blue eyes.

“I…” Richard’s expression stiffened. It felt like Oliver saw right through him. He tried to hold the bassist’s gaze, but failed. Casting his eyes down, he mumbled something incomprehensible. When Oliver took a hold of his rifle, he didn’t resist, but let the other man take the weapon from him. Then, a long arm was wrapped around his shoulder, and he could feel the warmth from his young colleague’s body.

Richard sighed. The temporary amusement from shooting towards Flake was gone, and he felt miserable. He tried to think of something smart to say to Oliver to make him go away, but he didn’t come up with anything, and decided to go for the truth.

“Yeah… Not so good. But I have a feeling you already know that,” he said, defeated.

Oliver hummed quietly, squeezing Richard’s biceps lightly. “Come,” he smiled, and started leading Richard towards a hilly landscape. The guitarist did not resist. In silence, the two of them walked for a while, Oliver’s arm still around Richard’s shoulder.

Vegetation was sparse in the area, but as they reached the top of one of the small hills, a tree with beautiful, pink flowers appeared in front of them. Oliver could feel Richard draw his breath sharply out of surprise, and he let go of the guitarist’s shoulder.

“The locals say that this tree is magical,” Oliver said softly, gently pushing Richard a little bit closer to it. “The scent of the flowers is very faint, but if you concentrate, you can catch a delicate, musky fragrance. And if you manage to smell it, they say that the flower grants you a mild intoxication that will make you feel good.”

Hesitantly, Richard approached the tree. He was pretty sure Oliver was bullshitting him, but the pink flowers were alluring, and it wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? For a moment, it crossed his mind that the flowers could be poisonous or that they would make his face swell up so that everyone would laugh at him. Though he quickly abandoned that thought. That was something he could have done, not Oliver.

The flowers were even more beautiful at close range. Richard let his palm glide across some of the petals. After deciding on one, he carefully released a flower from the tree, and lifted it to his nose.

“I can’t smell anything,” he complained, disappointment in his voice.

“Concentrate,” Olli replied from behind his camera.

Again, Richard brought the flower up to his nose. He closed his eyes, then inhaled deeply. At first, he smelled nothing, but then – he was not even sure if he actually smelled it, or if it was imagination – he picked up something very faint, a pleasant, musky scent that seemed to enter through his nose and then travel from there to each corner of his body, making him relax. He exhaled, then inhaled again.

Through the lens, Oliver could see a big smile spreading on Richard’s face, and he couldn’t help smiling himself. The bassist didn’t say anything, he let Richard savour the moment while he captured it in silence. And when the guitarist finally opened his eyes, he almost seemed like a new man.

“I need to go apologise to Flake,” he said, determination in his voice. Still clutching the flower, he gestured for Oliver to follow him as he started the descent. Though after a few steps, he stopped, and turned towards the bass player.

“Please don’t tell the other guys about this place. I think I might need it to survive this project,” he almost begged his younger colleague.

Oliver put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Our secret,” he smiled, and the relief in Richard’s eyes was palpable.

“Thank you, Olli. You’re the best.” Richard smiled back at the bassist, then turned and started walking again.

Seeing how Richard’s steps were much lighter than they had been on the way up the hill, Oliver finally let his own shoulders down. Crisis averted. The flowers had worked their magic.


End file.
